Fairytale
by blacksugarbomb
Summary: If Arthur Kirkland was a fairytale, then he was in love with it.


**Author Note: **I'm dedicating this short little thing to **Someya**! That little rascal of a sweetheart somehow dragged me onto the USUK bandwagon and now I can't exactly get off. But I wouldn't call myself a shipper either. Stuck half way?

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia or anything related to it.

* * *

Ever since Alfred could remember, Arthur Kirkland has been a part of his life. As a child, he spent many sun kissed days with the older man. Life with Arthur was fun, enjoyable and memorable – he was a busy man and was away a lot so he knew not to take their time together for granted. Everyday was an adventure tacked with happy memories; pleasant strolls and the occasional picnic on the hill just a small distance away from their house. On the days where the weather was bad they would stay indoors, Arthur reading story books with pictures that came alive as he narrated the tale or a magical time spent drawing as they both lay down on the floor, scribbling their wild imaginations down on paper in every shade of the rainbow.

Eventually when he was old enough, Alfred taught himself to ride when Arthur was away and when the Brit returned, they would go riding although Arthur would always lecture the cowboy on his atrocious posture and reckless riding that lacked elegance.

In any case, he adored Arthur with the entirety of his heart. Saying goodbye to him as he left for work back in his own country was always tough for Alfred and dare he admit it, he used to sulk for the rest of the day and the next about it. Likewise, he knew Arthur loved him like no other. He was quite aware that Arthur was in charge of taking care of several others like him simultaneously, but the Brit would always tell him that he was special and just those simple words would never fail to bring a grin to his lips. If anyone had asked Alfred when he was a child about his relationship with Arthur, the American wouldn't even bat an eye and say with undeniable certainty and pride that they were inseparable and nothing would ever destroy their relationship.

That was then, and it was true.

But then, they fell apart.

Thinking back upon this whole life changing incident that left a blotch on the pages of both Arthur's and his history, Alfred doesn't quite know what he was doing. The war is very significant to him because it's what helps define him as America but those years spent on the battlefield have become an absolute blur to him. He recalled having to kill Arthur's countrymen even though he knew thoroughly well that it hurt him. Despite this, he kept killing and killing, watching every brave young soldier in the gallant crimson red uniform fall and knowing that Arthur was surely feeling that same pained sour twisting sensation inside just as he himself was.

Then somehow his memory would skip to that rain drenched day when the final faceoff occurred. Maybe they had deliberately avoided seeing each other throughout the entire war because when he set eyes on Arthur again on that day, his heart nearly broke. It had been the first time he had seen him since the revolutionary war commenced and the British man looked like a living wreck. Ever since being taken under his wing, Alfred could not remember a day when the man didn't look spic and span; his clothes were never creased, shirt always sparkling white. And yet here he was, clothes in tatters caked with mud, blood, gunpowder and rain. His left arm was wrapped in bandages, the wound concealed beneath still oozing out blood. But much more than this, Arthur's expression was painful to look at. His face expressed a mixture of so many different emotions – desperation, pain, sorrow, betrayal and loneliness. It was this look that would always haunt him from the back of his mind, marring his heart with yet more scars, just like a curse.

It had hurt Alfred to just look at his former guardian. It hurt so much. But he forced himself to stare right into those desolate green eyes. He'd come so far and he wasn't about to give up.

"Hey England, I will choose liberty after all."

He had his people's hopes and wills to carry out.

"I'm no longer your child or your baby brother. From now on, I'm independent."

It wasn't time to stick to his personal emotions.

"Acknowledge it!"

It was over.

Letting down one's guard on the battlefield was never a smart idea – Alfred knew that much. And yet, he was caught off guard when Arthur charged straight at him with his bayonet poised. He barely managed to defend himself by bringing up his own musket to block the charge and even then, he lost his grip on his weapon and it dropped down into the damp mud. Behind him, his army had all their muskets trained on Arthur, fingers ready to pull the trigger. Either way, the British army no longer stood a chance even if Arthur killed him. But if he killed him, at least Arthur would have retained his pride as a nation – Alfred knew that the Kingdom of Great Britain would not accept surrendering as an option.

Would Arthur live up to the might of the Kingdom of Great Britain or would he let the valour of the Kingdom of Great Britain be reduced to nothing but a fairytale?

And as he watched the British man withdraw his weapon, Alfred knew the answer. Arthur dropped down to his knees and he cried as if he never did before. His heart squirmed inside his chest tightly, tearing him apart from the inside out. He wanted so much to just pull the man into a tight embrace and apologise for all the suffering he'd put him through in the war but he knew he couldn't do that.

"You used to be… So big…"

The Kingdom of Great Britain. Arthur Kirkland. A fairytale.

After the revolutionary war, they drifted apart and became strangers. It was like they had never met before, never talked to each other before and never laughed with one another. Just another nation that participated in the conferences. The gap that existed between them was overwhelming; once, their eyes accidentally met and Arthur immediately pretended that it had never happened and looked away with a frown, bottle green eyes searing with something Alfred couldn't read.

It wasn't until much later when Alfred took it upon himself as the responsibility of a hero to get along with everyone that he finally started interacting with the British man again. Arthur however, had the decency to either, interrupt him and comment scathingly on his mapped out road to Hell, silence him with a look or simply ignore him entirely. The days that he rejected his invitation would always make Alfred's heart sink although he buried that fact and masked it with a smile. On the other hand, when the blonde began attempting to start up conversations with him, his grins couldn't grow any wider.

If Arthur Kirkland was a fairytale, then he was in love with it.


End file.
